It sounded like a good idea when Pablo, my personal dental flosser, first suggested it. And, after bribing my wife with sex coupons, she was still reluctant (about the surgery and the coupons) but on board none the less.
Now on the surface, you may chalk this up to pure unadulterated vanity. But, I assure you, my vanity was never in question. No, I was doing this for one simple reason: To fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a nipple model – for I have truly spectacular nipples. Not too big. Not too small. Always perky. Alas, the surrounding areas, namely my man breasts, have always stood in the way of this dream becoming a reality. But no more. It was time for action. It was time for a visit to Dr. Showenwiess.
Needless to say, he was more than happy to take my money, and then draw on me with a tickly marker. And I was one step closer to living my dream.
Of course, having a new chest would bring about certain lifestyle changes. So in the days leading up to the surgery, I busied myself with these preparations. First, I bought tons of v-neck t-shirts – the male equivalent of the swooping neckline favoured by large chested women – that would highlight my man cleavage. Next, I began sourcing photographers to help me build a portfolio. Finally, I called every Chippendale who had ever laughed at me during an audition and told them exactly why, in 10 days time, they could suck it. (The figurative it, not my nipple.)
Surprisingly, when informing people of my news, I received many more laughs and awkward looks than I did congratulatory high fives. Normally I would brush this off as petty jealousy. But you never really know how hurtful it is to be called “a phony Ken doll” until you hear it from a 6-year old boy.
Naturally, I told the little bastard he was adopted; then ran off when he started crying. Afterwards, I fell into a shame spiral when I considered the consequences of my actions. Was it really weird for a man of my age, or any man for that matter, to get pectoral implants?
My therapist suggested the procedure was a way for me to cope with my fear of oatmeal. My proctologist gave me his therapist’s number. And my dentist speaks Latin, so she had no idea what I was saying.
I finally got some perspective when my hair stylist pointed out that, with all the exposure I planned on giving my new chest, it would probably look even better if I waxed or shaved it. As my chest hair is one of my most prized possessions, this would be a decision that required some deep thought.
Upon further review, the repercussions became crystal clear to me: If I shaved my chest, I’d have to start oiling my chest; once I began oiling my chest, I’d have to start tanning that shit too, and Coppertone skin requires long, flowing golden locks. And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I realized what I would become:
A male titty model.
I know what you’re thinking, “This is your dream. Your nipples will be living the life. You’ll grace the covers of countless Harlequin Romance novels. You’ll have the second most famous cleavage this side of Pam Anderson. You’ll have your own slushy machine. It’s everything you’ve every wanted.” And this is all true. But at what cost I say? I’m not about to give up my chest hair (and whatever dignity I have left) to become some self-loathing, wannabe Lothario in make-up and fruity pirate clothes. If there were an eye patch involved, maybe I’d consider it. But I’d only wear it when brushing my teeth, so probably not.
No friends, unfortunately this was yet another dream I would have to let die. Like my short lived synchronized swimming career, psychic hotline, and animal whisperer clinic, it wasn’t meant to be. But don’t worry, some good news has come from this ordeal. I’ve learned it’s not always reasonable to dream big. And, in the after math, I’ve decided to re-focus all my energy on pursuing a more attainable goal: Becoming a body hair model.